


the bite and the howl

by clawstoagunfight (orphan_account)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:42:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2640206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/clawstoagunfight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the bite and the howl

 The silence stretches out around him—still, listless; the kind of quiet that eats away at him; that makes him want to speak into the hush just to make sure he can still hear.

The night is cold and bitter. Snow starts to fall—onto his shoulders, onto his head, onto the dead grass beneath his feet and the gravestone just before him.

Her name is carved into the stone. Her life reduced down to etches, to outlines, to impressions in marble that pale in the wake of his memories of her. She was strong. She was beautiful. She was fierce and loyal and gave her life for him.

It’s something he tries not to think about. It’s something that hollows out the pit of his stomach and makes his breath catch on a sob he can never quite seem to release.

It’s been a year—long and cold, just like tonight—and lonely. He’s never felt so alone.

The flowers in his hands have already started to wilt around the edges from the cold. They are out of season. They are just another thing in his life out of their element, out of his control, something else that’s sure to die because of his touch.

He lowers himself to the earth, hard and unforgiving under him. The wind picks up, whips at his skin, but he welcomes the lashes, welcomes the bite and the howl.

The flowers look almost garish against the gray stone; like a mockery more than an echo of her brightness.

She was always like a star to him. She was the thing that guided his way. She led him out of the dark, out of the shadows, out of the fear that used to cripple him. She was his light. But now she’s faded out—like stars stuck to the ceiling of his childhood bedroom—something that used to comfort him, but now is nothing more than a dull reminder of what used to be.

Snow covers the black outline of her name. He reaches up to touch it, imagining—just for a moment—that she could really be here in front of him, that he can really feel her warmth, soak it in—but the stone is cold, hard, lifeless.

The wind steals his breath, burns his eyes.

There are moments—he thinks to himself, when he’s sure no one else is around, sure that no one can see the agony he feels inside finally manifest itself onto his face—that he wishes he would’ve known how hard it would be without her. There are moments where he thinks it would’ve been easier just to crawl into the dirt beside her.

But the moments pass. The moments always seem to pass.

The cemetery goes silent once again.

He opens his mouth to speak, and it’s like the world slows down, like the earth beneath him wants to listen to what he has to say, like maybe he can whisper words to her grave and it will erase some of his guilt, like she could hear it, like she could forgive him—like he could forgive himself.

But he knows he doesn’t deserve it. Not yet. Not ever. She is gone. She is never coming back.

Instead, he stands up and takes a step back, leaving the flowers resting against her gravestone.

“Merry Christmas, Allison.”

 


End file.
